


Labor Laetitia Nostra

by zubeneschamali



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Ritual Sex, Sex Magic, possibly mild blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23676997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zubeneschamali/pseuds/zubeneschamali
Summary: Written in response to a simple spn_masquerade prompt: Sam Winchester spread out on an altar.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87





	Labor Laetitia Nostra

He's done weirder things for the sake of the job. Right? He must have done something weirder than this before.

Dean touches each of his nipples in turn, anointing them with holy oil, and Sam squirms at the touch. Nope, pretty sure this is the weirdest thing ever.

His lips are next, and Dean's fingers linger there a touch too long. The final stage of the cross is lower down, and okay, Dean just had to touch the tip, not massage it with his oil-slick fingers.

He can't reprimand Dean for it; he's not supposed to speak. So now Sam is on his back on the long stone altar, looking up at the decaying ceiling of this abandoned Oklahoma church, naked as the day he was born, with his cock starting to reach for the sky. 

Now Dean's revisiting the same places with a bundle of sage, and the tickling brush of the leaves across his nipples has him taking a sharp breath. Dean brushes the sage across his lips, the brief scent of the hills and skies of the West lingering afterwards.

He lays the bundle beside the base of Sam's cock before bringing it up and around in a slow, twisting motion, and okay, that was definitely not on the original ritual. Sam would be angry with Dean for fucking with the steps except that he knows what has to happen at the end of this particular ritual, and Dean's certainly making that part easier all the time.

His arms are down at his sides—not tied down, not when the spirit they're trying to put to rest is still out there running around. The stone is cold underneath him, though it's starting to warm up with his body heat. Sam's just glad that even if the church is in ruins, it's still standing, strong enough to keep out the cold December wind.

There are candles flickering in ornate candlesticks on either side of his head, just within the range of his peripheral vision. Dean's feet keep brushing against crumbling plaster that's fallen from the ceiling as he moves around the altar, taking items from the foot of it and applying them to Sam's body as need be.

Sam would wonder if Dean was making this up if he himself hadn't been the one to find the ritual first. It was to save an old pioneer town, made wealthy by oil and then dried up with the Dust Bowl, where the handful of remaining residents were being picked off one by one. They'd eventually figured out through conversations with some very elderly residents and way too many hours looking at microfiche three hours away in Tulsa that the original discoverer of oil, a Mr. Will Harlan, had been more skilled at witchcraft than geology. His children had kept up the rituals to the spirits providing the town with good fortune, but the last of their children had gone away to college a few months ago, leaving the town unprotected.

And of course the wannabe oilman hadn't just done magic, he'd done _sex_ magic. Which meant they had to come up with something even more powerful to protect the town and its last dozen residents for good.

Dean was starting the chanting now, low and deep. Sam can feel the words thrumming through him, Latin words familiar as his own name, if not usually in this combination. The candles are burning steady and bright, casting warm shadows over the ruined walls around them.

The second time through, Dean starts removing his clothing. Sam had been unable to persuade him to wear the linen shift and sandals that the medieval monk who'd first written down the ritual would have worn. "The clothing doesn't matter, Sam. He was a _monk_. He didn't even do the—" Dean had broken off to make a crude gesture, Sam rolling his eyes in response.

Now, Dean has to slow down the chanting so he can finish getting all of his layers off at the right time. Sam will have to save an "I told you so" for later. Then Dean's positioning himself at Sam's feet, the altar just coming up to his waist. He reaches for the holy oil again, and now Sam is lifting his head with interest.

Dean has to keep facing the altar, but Sam can still watch his face as he reaches behind him with slick fingers. The first touch comes with a slight wince, probably because of the cold. But he presses in anyway, followed shortly by another wince as he's probably going for two too fast. The impatient determination on Dean's face from when he just can't wait to get Sam inside of him is far too familiar. 

Sam lays his head back down, telling himself to be patient. They can't rush this, or it won't work. There are still more steps to follow, more chanting and stroking and…

And then Dean is climbing up on the altar, crawling up between Sam's legs before straddling Sam's waist. He's reciting the same words as before, but all Sam can concentrate on is how he's got his fingers wrapped around Sam's dick, apparently making sure it's completely hard, even though that's clearly not a problem.

Then he drizzles more holy oil, leans over to briefly wave the sage across each of the candles, and takes a firmer grip. Eyes locked onto Sam's, he rubs the tip of Sam's cock around his rim, like he's teasing himself or something, before _slowly_ sliding down.

Sam clamps his lips together, afraid he's going to shout out Dean's name or something else that will ruin the whole thing. Dean's so tight around him, the slick of the oil seemingly the only reason he's managing to fit Sam in. His eyes are wide, lips parted like he's breathing through it, knowing it's going to get better in just a moment. 

Sam's hands clench around the worn edges of the stone altar. He isn't supposed to move any more than he's supposed to speak; he has to represent the spiritual power that has resided in this place since Mr. Harlan's family founded the town, embodied in the altar and therefore in his own body on top of that altar. 

It figures that the one time Dean won rock-paper-scissors, it was over who got to top during sex magic. 

Of course, Dean isn't technically topping, but he's certainly in control, settling in with Sam fully inside of him. His breathing is getting faster, a flush spreading across his chest, and Sam loves to watch this part, when he puts those bowed legs to use and rides Sam like he's a horse. He's got the hand holding the sage braced on Sam's chest, the other on the stone of the altar, and he fucking _winks_ at Sam before lifting himself almost painfully slowly.

Sam's cock is almost entirely out of Dean before he slams back down, and Sam can't hold back from thrusting up into him. Dean lets out a groan and leans back, eyelids fluttering shut like he's concentrating on the sensation. He does it again, and this time he's apparently got Sam just where he wants him, because his already-hard dick gives a twitch and starts to rise higher.

Sam would love to get his hands on that dick, tease it with light touches intermingled with almost-too-hard pulls, the combination that gets Dean off faster than anything. Dean has to come first for this to work right, at least from what Sam was able to piece together for the ritual. So his own hand is the one stripping his dick as he starts riding Sam faster.

Sam bites his lip, concentrating on the cold of the stone beneath him and not on how Dean's lips are flushing a deep pink as his arousal grows. He tries to think about how gross and dusty this altar was before they wiped it off, not how Dean's low moans are growing steadily louder as he works himself on Sam's cock. _Not yet, not yet, not yet…_

Dean's grip grows tighter, and now he's all out of rhythm, bouncing up and down on Sam while he tries to get himself to come. He's close, Sam can see it, but he's used to Sam's hands all over him, Sam's mouth on his, and there's not much Sam can do but watch.

There's a flicker of movement to his right, and he turns his head to see a faint, human outline fading into view. It's got to be Harlan's ghost, and Sam looks back up at Dean, frantic.

"Not now, you son of a bitch," Dean mutters. He's already let go of his cock to reach behind him, where a salt-laden sawed-off is resting with other supplies between Sam's legs. He fires off a round, and the ghost vanishes.

Dean puts the gun down and grins at Sam. "Guess we better hurry this up."

Sam waits till Dean's got his hand on his dick again and has reestablished some kind of rhythm. Then, making sure he has Dean's full attention, Sam deliberately licks his lips before opening his mouth nice and wide.

Dean's next groan is higher-pitched, and then he's throwing his head back as he comes, striping Sam nearly up to his neck. He feels so fucking good clenching around Sam, and now Sam can let it go and thrust up into him, chasing his own orgasm while he hangs on to the altar like they're both going to fall off if he lets go.

It doesn't take long before Sam is arching back, biting his tongue to keep from crying out, shuddering as he releases into Dean. 

There's another, fainter cry from the main part of the church, and they both turn to see a shower of sparks ascending towards the decrepit ceiling.

Dean turns back to grin at Sam. "Man, I love this job."


End file.
